"Where I’m From" by Kendra Dawdy Ackerman I’m from communion bread, from white and black generic and Holy Ghost Creek. I’m from the windy, tiny, roaring-down-the-highway hometown. (Apricot trees out back, wide, embracing, perfect for playing house.) I’m from the tumbleweed and the once-a-summer gulley washers whose wet smacks christened a whole new adventure for me and Kara. I’m from Acappella gospel, sing me that sweet old harmony and short, but stubborn, from Ken and Shelley and Dawdy, Lively, now Ackerman. I’m from the loud-mouth know-it-alls, and the always say you’re sorry, from don’t give into your sister and servants, leaders, perhaps workaholics. I’m from Sampson with his eyes pok-ed out on the ride home and cleaning the church building on Saturday nights. I'm from NM and CO, corn bread and pecans, white beans and pinto. From PawPaw drove a Ford wrecker, Momma drove into a big tree in the middle of the road, and Granddad drove a big ‘ole green lawn mower. Out of my mouth ring my family’s melodies—some rarely heard, some always present, like the hymns my granddad sang after he lost his mind or the ones my granny hums as she takes out the trash. I’m from the cedar chest my Daddy refinished for my Momma and then made one for me— smells like camping, feels like home.
"Where I’m From" by Kendra Dawdy AckermanI’m from communion bread,
from white and black generic and Holy Ghost Creek.
I’m from the windy, tiny, roaring-down-the-highway hometown. (Apricot trees out back, wide, embracing, perfect for playing house.)
I’m from the tumbleweed and the once-a-summer gulley washers
whose wet smacks christened a whole new adventure for me and Kara.
I’m from Acappella gospel,
sing me that sweet old harmony
and short, but stubborn,
from Ken and Shelley and Dawdy, Lively, now Ackerman.
I’m from the loud-mouth know-it-alls, and the always say you’re sorry, from don’t give into your sister and servants, leaders, perhaps workaholics.
I’m from Sampson with his eyes pok-ed out on the ride home and cleaning the church building on Saturday nights.
I'm from NM and CO,
corn bread and pecans,
white beans and pinto.
From PawPaw drove a Ford wrecker,
Momma drove into a big tree in the middle of the road,
and Granddad drove a big ‘ole green lawn mower.
Out of my mouth ring my family’s melodies—some rarely heard, some always present, like the hymns my granddad sang after he lost his mind or the ones my granny hums as she takes out the trash.
I’m from the cedar chest my Daddy refinished for my Momma and then made one for me—
smells like camping, feels like home.